“First thing that popped into my head,” you reply sheepishly. She also knows that no one reveals anything to the help, because it never means anything to them.

You’ve been lying on the makeshift rack converted from a surgical table, staring into the fluorescent lighting. It’s a subtle trick, but the harsh quality of the light floods a subject’s visual receptors, and overloads the visual cortex. Other brain function usually slows, and the subject as a result will sing like a canary.

You’ve been squinting, but still your rods and cones are flooded. When she’s undone all your restraints, she moves to the head of the table. The silhouette of her head breaks the light and gives you a chance to focus.

“Ascot is not the word we want,” she demurs.

“But it’s a good password!” You’re pushing it. “Nobody ever uses ‘one’ or ‘1-2-3-4-5’ because it has to be so personally meaningful, you know?”

Despite knowing the light trick, you’re too chatty. They’ve given you something, and it’s totally snuck up on you.